Sunday, the twenty-eighth of January

Cool, damp after fog overnight, gray morning coffee muses.

The birds appear to really prefer this type of mornings. They are flitting from tree to tree, singing louder than most mornings.

The world just feels damp. There’s a feeling in the air that pulls from the ancestral home country. Scotland, Ireland, the British Isles in their entirety.

It’s the kind of morning where it’s easy to sleep in because the day never gets very bright. It’s the kind of day this winter will be remembered for. Gray, twilight all day long.

Even the parking lot gulls are lost in the gray. Meandering about in the sky, no apparent destination in mind.

Yesterday’s upset cow is quiet this morning. Which is the way it normally is. I’m seldom even aware there are cows in the neighborhood. I’m more apt to hear the donkeys around the corner than the cows behind my house.

And here com the morning’s trains. From the distant whistle, it appears to be moving up from Liverpool. Since this is where I started yesterday’s muse… I think I’ll end today’s with the sound of a train going by…

Time to go fix breakfast…

Join the conversation...